


Raise a Glass

by Rushifa



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Gen, One-Shot, Saiyan Culture, Saiyan traditions, it's super subtle though, mild kakavege
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 14:30:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7718449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rushifa/pseuds/Rushifa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vegeta decides to bring back a Saiyan tradition, and is surprised to find that he isn't bothered by company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raise a Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little one-shot character study. I haven't written fanfiction in...ten years? So be gentle. 
> 
> (It kind of leans Goku/Vegeta because that's my thing, but it's not really the point.)

Raise a Glass

 

I.

  


The area was decimated, the bare carcass of a ship the only outward sign of the battle that had taken place only a handful of hours before. But Vegeta recognized the area from the sky, and, sure enough, he found the body of King Cold, right where they’d left him.

Cold’s body didn’t matter to him, of course, but it was something. There was no body for Frieza. Just the knowledge that his DNA, the last particles of his hated form, had been scattered in the area. No body, but assurance, at last, that he would never come back again.

He settled on a rock, as close as he could get to the area where Frieza had been disintegrated. Where his former enemy—his former tormentor, former  _master_ —had finally fallen. Where, a day ago, a stranger had once again stolen his birthright; robbed him of his second chance at revenge.

For how few of his people there were left, it was starting to feel very crowded.

Vegeta pulled out the glass bottle of black liquor, sitting back on the rock. Traditionally, it should have been Warrior’s Wine, or, failing that, a beverage claimed from the defeated enemy. But the brewing of Warrior’s Wine was just one of many Saiyan traditions that were lost forever; and no force in the universe would get him to drink the putrid liquor of Frieza’s people ever again. On the ship, all those years, it had been one of few comforts. But those years were over.

It did not seem real, still, this odd sense of freedom. He had never truly been free. At some point, when he was a small boy, he must have felt free; but even then, there were actions in motion, forces pulling him towards Frieza, towards servitude, towards the life he’d had.

Maybe this was just another artificial freedom, another stop along the way.

He uncorked the bottle, and took a generous swig, wincing as the slow burn hit his throat a few seconds too late. He didn’t cough, though. He’d drunk far worse, after the darkest battles.

The Battle Rite was a tradition he’d never partaken in before, although he had vague memories of watching his father spill the wine, before tradition had gone the way of everything else. He had noticed how Nappa and Raditz tended to disappear after certain battles, and assumed it was a tradition they weren’t ready to give up. But he’d seen no point. The tradition was meant for great battles, honorable battles, and there was nothing honorable about the work they did for Frieza.

It had been so long since he’d cared about that type of honor.

This battle had not been honorable. It hadn’t even been his. Over too soon, the chance at victory—at redemption—plucked from his hands. But, the defeat of Frieza, even if it wasn't at his own hands, was worth acknowledging.

He’d let Frieza’s first defeat slip past him, a thorn in his side, a bittersweet victory he couldn’t shake the taste of. But this. He was not missing the opportunity again.

Maybe a bit of tradition would help it stick, this time.

From just the one generous swig, he could already feel a vague tingling settling into the back of his head. Stronger stuff than he’d realized, which only seemed appropriate.

Standing, he shook the bottle, spraying murky brown liquid over the ground. A wide girth, covering as much area as possible. Microscopic particles of Frieza, coating everything and nothing. Invisible parasites. It made his skin crawl, just thinking about it.

For a wild moment, he imagined those particles coming together, reforming in front of him, those familiar eyes burning into his soul.

But no, the dirt was just dirt, the rocks just rocks. Yards away, King Cold’s mangled body lay still, lifeless. As all corpses are.

He took another swig of the liquor, the taste more enjoyable now that he was expecting the burn.

The familiar, slow increase of ki to his left made him bristle. Of course. Could he not even enjoy this one luxury in peace?

Goku touched down a few moments later, giving him a half-hearted wave that Vegeta did not return. Imbecile.

“Hey, Vegeta.”

“What are you doing here?” He barked.

Goku cocked his head, as if puzzled at himself. “I…don’t really know. It just seemed like the place I should be.”

Vegeta wanted to laugh at that. Imagine, over twenty years on this godforsaken planet with no Saiyan instincts left intact, and yet this one thing called to him.

He extended the bottle, without moving, and Goku blinked at him. “I…don’t drink.”

“Drink the swill or get off back to your pathetic human family,” Vegeta retorted, shaking the bottle at him. “You either do this the right way, or leave me in peace.” A large part of him hoped that the other Saiyan would take the easy way out, but when Goku stretched out his hand at last and accepted the bottle, a small part of him was impressed. Even glad.

Traditionally, this was not an honor to be celebrated alone.

“Why are  _you_  here?” Goku asked, taking a seat on the rock Vegeta had been on moments before. He took a tentative sip of the liquid, and coughed as it hit his throat, his face pinching up. Pathetic. But, not unexpected.

“Our people had a tradition,” Vegeta said, grabbing for the bottle and taking another generous swig. There was a distinct buzzing in his head now, but he was a long way from properly drunk, and Goku’s naivety prodded him on. “The Battle Rite. A last drink over a fallen opponent, when the battle has been long and the war has been won.” He extended the bottle again.

“Oh,” Goku said, accepting the drink and taking another sip, bigger this time. He did not cough. “You always do this?”

“No,” Vegeta said. He took a seat on a neighboring rock. It was far enough from Goku that he didn’t feel the other’s ki constricting him, but still in reach of the bottle. It was also higher than Goku’s rock, which gave him a distinct height advantage over the other Saiyan, for once. “Never defeated an opponent worthy of it.”

“Ah,” Goku said, studying the area as if just realizing where they were. “This was a worthy battle?”

“It was a very long war.” Vegeta’s head was actually beginning to spin, but he ignored it.

“Should I go?” Goku asked. “Is this one of those Saiyan traditions that should be done alone?”

Vegeta didn’t explain that, traditionally, there would be feasting and music along with the last drink, a rowdy crew of soldiers lifting up the warriors who’d made the best kills, rounds of drinking songs and stories of battles past. He didn’t explain that, in the time of his father, it would have been as much about sharing the victory with your brothers in war, as acknowledging a worthy opponent.

“You may do as you wish,” he said instead.

 

 

 

II.

  


Vegeta brought glasses this time. And an Earth wine at least slightly more similar to tradition than the strong liquor he’d used with Frieza. Although he didn’t drink often and certainly not out amongst the planet’s inhabitants, he had picked up a few of their mannerisms, and developed a taste for their red wines. He liked that it looked like blood; it was similar to the dark, murky-red wine of his people, even if the texture and taste were different.

The lighter taste and color also felt appropriate. Cell was a much different victory than Frieza. Not the culmination of a lifetime of servitude and spite, but not a trifling battle, either. Although, again, he’d been denied a proper hand in the victory (and that galled him still, a deep, festering burn his pride shied away from), the defeat had none-the-less been satisfying. Although he would have preferred a direct victory, there was still honor in defeating an enemy in tandem with other warriors. He’d held back from the battle, his victory already stolen from him, but when the pathetic human warriors had joined, he could hardly sit on the sidelines like some kind of coward.

And though he was lo to admit it, the death of his son—even a death so easily reversed—had not sat well with him. Death was a part of life, and an early end was common among Saiyans, but the possibility nagged at him that Trunk’s easy defeat reflected poorly on himself--could have perhaps been prevented by improved training. It was possible he had made some error, omitted some point, somehow allowed a weakness to survive in the boy during their year of training in the Time Chamber.

The glasses were more for the boy, anyway. Well, boys.

Trunks had come willingly enough, if with a curious, distrustful slant to his eyes. Vegeta liked that, although he would never admit it. But Kakarot’s brat he’d had to snatch from where he was gathering firewood in the many miles of forest surrounding his home. He would have been difficult to find, if not for his blinding ki signature. Even at a resting state, he had stood out to Vegeta.

The boy had protested, but evidently he was used to being plucked out of his normal routine by taciturn aliens, and he had come willingly enough.

There wasn’t much to see of the battlefield. News vans had come and gone, taking word of Earth’s glorious savior back to the naive masses. There was no body, of course. 

“Why are we here. Uh, Mr. Vegeta?” Kakarot’s boy said as they landed. 

Vegeta approached an outcropping of rocks, blasting some debris aside with some well-directed ki.

“Shut up,” he said as he laid out the glasses. “This does not require talking.”

“Uh, but, what are we…” Trunks added. God, how they both tiptoed around him. And rightfully so, he supposed. At least someone showed him the respect he deserved.

“We are Saiyans,” Vegeta said, as he pored three wine glasses. Generous helpings for him and his son, and a mere quarter glass for the whelp. “We should honor a victory like Saiyans.”

He handed the glasses out.

“Uh,” Gohan sputtered, “is this alcohol? I’m pretty sure my mom wouldn't like me having alcohol…”

Vegeta’s eyes narrowed. “And how do you imagine I will like it if you disobey me?”

Gohan paled, and Vegeta could see him weighing fears in his mind. Who did he fear more, his mother, or his imposing former enemy? Strange, that the boy had exhibited such impressive, superior strength, and yet remained so meek.

Vegeta shook the glass at him. “Boy, your father respected this tradition, as shall you.”

That did it. All the resistance slipped from the boy’s face. The hesitance remained, clouded with a strained sadness at the mention of his dead father, but he took the glass without further protest.

Vegeta handed the other glass to Trunks, who took it without comment, although his puzzled look spoke volumes.

I hope they don’t get used to this much attention, Vegeta thought.

He had considered coming to the battlefield alone. But the call of other Saiyans—even small, emotionally weak halfbreeds—had been too strong to resist. Much as he hated to admit it, he had appreciated Kakarot’s presence when they toasted Frieza. Even a shadow of tradition was still tradition. 

They settled on the rocks, and Vegeta poured a generous amount of wine onto the ground, before taking the tallest rock as his seat.

“Normally this would be poured over a body,” he said.

The boys just nodded. Vegeta took a large swig of his own glass, and then when the boys simply sat there, he motioned for them to do the same. “Go on. It won’t kill you.” Piss-ant excuses for warriors.

Trunks was the first to take a tentative sip, and if he didn’t like the taste, he at least covered his reaction well enough. He was, after all, practically grown. This couldn't have been his first taste of alcohol. Especially not coming from such a violent time as he had.

Gohan was much more hesitant. He took the smallest of sips, his face crinkling up at the bitterness, mirroring his father’s reaction all those years ago. Vegeta felt a small, unexpected twinge at the comparison.

Kakarot. He should have been here. The moron’s death was so meaningless, so unnecessary, it dug at Vegeta. Him and his needless self-sacrifices. First, by transporting Cell away to Other World, blowing himself up in the process. And then, refusing to come back, through some misguided sense of protectiveness. As if the Earth would be any better off without him, when he was barely there to begin with.

Again, cheating Vegeta out of the revenge he deserved.

He should have been here, too, for this moment. This tradition.

Vegeta reached back into the bag he’d brought, and pulled out the forth glass. With the remaining wine, he filled the glass halfway, and set it beside the brat on the ground.

“’A libation for fallen soldiers,’” he said, when Gohan gave him a puzzled look. The boy’s expression cleared, and he smiled. It was not an expression Vegeta was used to seeing directed at him, and he turned away, frowning. So much like his father; so quick to throw off fear and sadness and replace them with openness.

He didn’t want to like the boy. Gohan’s very nature irked him, it was so un-Saiyan, and that he could have such power despite all his weaknesses was nearly unforgivable. But the battle with Cell had not been easy; anyone could see there was honor in it. If fighting was against his very nature, he had risen to that challenge and overcome it. Vegeta could respect that, if grudgingly.

“Great battles demand to be remembered,” Vegeta said, taking another generous sip of his wine. There would always be more battles. He couldn’t hope for—no, he would never even  _want_ —an end to all battles. It was in their nature to fight. In the very nature of the universe, if you wanted to get philosophical about it (for what did they believe in, if not the constant violence of the universe?). But Earth offered a respite. The Battle Rite was not just a celebration of the end to a war; it was an acknowledgment of the fleeting break between conflicts.

The boys, to their credit, took the rest of their drink in silence.

  


 

III.

  


He felt the ki signatures long before he arrived, and considered turning back; but if he’d sensed them, they’d sensed him, and retreating would have seemed cowardly.

It wasn’t  _the_ battlefield this time, because the battlefield had changed so many times, finally ending on another world. But it was  _a_  battlefield. The place where he’d died.

Died, like Kakarot years ago, in an ultimately needless display of self-sacrifice. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Given the same situation, he would likely make the same decision again. Was that weakness? He would have thought so, at one point, but after everything that had happened, he was no longer sure.

They were waiting for him. That was clear when he landed. Kakarot had built a fire pit in the center of the crater, and there were folding camp chairs set up around it, distractingly mundane. A folding table was to one side, adorned with raw meats, which Gohan was already starting to cook over the fire. His son was there, along with Kakarot’s youngest brat, but no one else besides. Only the Saiyans.

“Hey, Vegeta,” Goku said as he landed, as casual as if they’d planned to meet here. “Good timing. We’re almost ready.”

“Ready?” Vegeta huffed. This set-up was unlike what he’d done for either of the other battles. He eyed Karakot and his oldest suspiciously.

“Yup.” Goku’s focus shifted skyward, and he spoke into the air. “Whenever you are, King Kai.”

There was no response, at least none that Vegeta could hear, but then a few boxes materialized in front of Goku. The other man smiled, and began to unpack some bottles.

“What is this?” Vegeta barked, tempted to escape now while there was still time.

“I called in some favors,” Goku said, handing him a cup. Vegeta took it without complaint, but with a sense of trepidation, and allowed Goku to fill it up. A thick, poignant liquid flowed into the goblet, and the smell called up an odd sense of familiarity.

“What is this?”

“Just drink it,” Goku responded, with a smile.

Wrinkling his nose in suspicion, Vegeta took a tentative sip.

The taste was bitter and rich, almost like a deep chocolate, but with an earthy undertone. It took him back to campfires on strange planets, to the barking laugh of his father, the lingering stench of bloody battlefields.

“How did you…?”

“I have my connections,” Goku said with a smile, handing glasses around to their sons. Quarter cups for the two boys, but Vegeta was oddly impressed that he’d include them in the ritual. He’d always been included in the drinking as a child, but then often the alcohol was safer than the water on most alien planets, and Saiyans did not coddle their children the way humans seemed to. Especially not on the battlefield. But he was surprised Goku would risk the wrath of either of the boys’ mothers.

He eyed the children pointedly, and Kakarot shrugged. “You said do it the Saiyan way, or not at all.”

Vegeta was surprised that he’d remembered.

“This is…more then necessary,” Vegeta said, taking one of the chairs.

“Oh, and this isn’t everything,” Goku said. He reached into one of the boxes, and pulled out a long, stringed instrument, very reminiscent of an earth guitar. An instrument Vegeta hadn’t seen in years; he couldn’t even remember the name for it, perhaps had never know it, but it had always been present at his father’s after-battle celebrations. To his surprise, Goku gave it an experimental strum.

As the boys pulled their chairs into the circle, and Gohan distributed plates of cooked meat and skewered veggies, Goku launched into a Saiyan ballad Vegeta hadn’t heard in years. He watched the other Saiyan’s fingers as they plucked the instrument; once, he’d learned to play this very song as well, although he’d completely forgotten about it.

Kakarot’s voice was not good, but the song was more spoken than sung anyway, and the rough nature of his voice was appropriate. In his memory, Vegeta could hear many voices raised in the chant, glasses held aloft. It struck him that all those voices were dead now. Everyone was, except these four around him.

When Goku finished, a comfortable silence settled in. Gohan and the boys had wistful looks on their faces, and Vegeta wondered what idealized concept of Saiyans they were imagining. Goku’s smile was mischievous and open, as he tried to read Vegeta’s reaction.

“You are full of surprises today, Kakarot,” Vegeta said, trying to keep his voice on the edge of biting. Half sarcastic, half genuine, so his words wouldn’t be taken too seriously.

“I wasn’t  _only_ training all those years in Other World,” Goku said, and Vegeta had an image of him hunched over the instrument, trying to teach his clumsy hands to strum a simple melody. It didn’t seem like something that would come naturally to him. That he had tried…well, it was something Vegeta couldn’t describe.

“Although,” Goku added, “I think that particular song was a leftover from Vegito.” He tapped Vegeta’s forhead gently, and Vegeta batted his hand away with a huff. Goku just laughed. Why did smiles and laughter always come so easy to him?

“Would you like to do the honors?” Goku extended the mostly-empty bottle to him, and Vegeta stood. He pored the remainder onto the fire, which spurted and licked towards the sky. The other Saiyans woop-ed, and mirrored Vegeta as he took a large gulp of the wine. He was proud to note that his son did not wince at the bitter taste, though both Goten and Gohan had nearly identical looks of surprise. Kakarot didn’t react, he just drained his glass and raised it, empty, above the fire, his eyes on Vegeta. Huh. He’d forgotten this part of the tradition. How had Kakarot known?

They smashed their glasses together, letting the shards dance into the fire.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Major shout out to IggyBlue and her wonderful V. series. These are not quite her version of the characters, but her handling of them definitely influenced my voice. If you haven't read her stuff, definitely check it out!
> 
> There may be minor inconsistencies with canon, so if anyone spotted anything, let me know and I will deal with it forthwith!


End file.
